“'The divil a word o' lie in it,' says the voice. 'Take me down, and give me an air o' the fire, for the night 's cowld.'
“'And where are you, father,' says I, 'av it's plasing to ye?'
“'I 'm on the dhresser,' says he. 'Don't you see me?'
“'Sorra bit o' me. Where now?'
“'Arrah, on the second shelf, next the rowling-pin. Don't you see the green jug?—that's me.'
“'Oh, the saints in heaven be about us!' says I; 'and are you a green jug?'
“'I am,' says he; 'and sure I might be worse. Tim Healey's mother is only a cullender, and she died two years before me.'
“'Oh! father, darlin',' says I, 'I hoped you wor in glory; and you only a jug all this time!'
“'Never fret about it,' says my father; 'it 's the transmogrification of sowls, and we 'll be right by and by. Take me down, I say, and put me near the fire.'
“So I up and took him down, and wiped him with a clean cloth, and put him on the hearth before the blaze.